Walls of Lilies
by EYESviolet
Summary: With betrayal comes desperate measures. And things are not as they seem. Hermione Granger has fallen out of glory; who more likely to come across than Draco Malfoy? :All Rights To J. K. R.: HIATUS.
1. Prologue

"I picked some daisies for you," he says. "I know they're your favorite."

You turn to face him, and lie. "Actually, I prefer lilies."

His face falls. His eyes drop. His feet shuffle. "Oh."

There is a tense silence. He proffers the flowers, anyway. "Still, though. I picked them for you."

It is a sparse bouquet, the stems roughly broken and half of the flowers near-wilted.

You take it, anyway. "Thank you."

"You're welcome…" he croaks, licking his lips and kneading his shoes into the peaty soil of the garden.

You stand in the overgrown garden, a cool breeze tickling your skin. Holding the small bouquet. Your own brown curls drift in front of your eyes occasionally. You are too preoccupied to brush them away. Too preoccupied with not looking at him.

"I'm sorry." He winces as he speaks.

"Sorry…" you echo, lips trembling. Ever-so slightly.

"Yeah. I'm sorry… So sorry."

Tongues of flame dance up your spine, burning your throat with the words which you wish to hurl at him. Fueled by your childless womb. Your racing heart. Your aching lungs.

Minutes pass.

Suddenly, something sparks. Something explodes. Regurgitates its fury. _Something_.

"Yeah?"

You fling down the flowers. They scatter in the thick grass.

"Sorry doesn't cut it! No, no! How _dare _you? How dare you! You lie—," your breath catches, "you… you… _spike my drink! _You… you! All this time! I've… all this time, I've been looking… looking into the eyes of a liar!"

Your hands tremble. They curl into fists.

"Of a… of a…" a sob breaks up your throat, unexpectedly.

You face him, angrily, furiously, wetness icing down your cheeks. "I loved you!" you accuse.

"I loved you… and you lied! You lied about everything! Ev-everything…" a hiccup interrupts your tirade, "I… I… I hate you! _Hate _you! How… how could you? How!"

He steps hesitantly forward, face tight, mouth opening helplessly.

"No! No!" you make a spastic hand gesture, tumbling back a step. "Stay away, _away_ from me!"

He takes your wrist. You whip it away.

"Don't touch me!"

More sobs. Random, venting breaths.

He looks so hurt, so wounded, so pained. For a moment, you waver.

No. You will be strong. You will never give in.

It is in that moment that you build the walls around your heart.

Against your knowledge, it is constructed of lies, pain, and mistrust.


	2. Blue?

_I need to get more food._

It is the first coherent thought to cross your mind that morning. The gleaming white innards of the Muggle refrigerator are nearly bare, lest for a few leftovers and cartons of drink. You let the door swing shut of its own volition, and you lean, limp, across the granite countertops. A shaky breath pervades your lungs.

You remember it all much too vividly.

_Blue. Blue. Your mind struggles momentarily to remember what blue means. _

_Your fingers freeze. They grow numb on the white plastic. _

_Blue._

_Your voice trembles when you speak. "R-Ron?"_

Nausea stirs in your gut, and you lift yourself away from the cool stone, closing your eyes and pressing your fingertips into your forehead, rubbing at the dull ache.

Footsteps, unmistakably bare by their sticking to the linoleum, pad towards you from the staircase.

"Hermione?" his tone drips trepidation.

You don't turn. That all-too familiar fire bites at your insides. Surely your organs will be blackened by now? A slow death. How fitting.

His hand finds your shoulder. You spin wildly, teeth clenching. "Do not touch me, Ronald!"

His hands fly up in surrender, backing up a step. "I'm sorry, a'right? Are you okay?"

Those dreadful words again. _I'm sorry. _Like Hell you're sorry.

No, Ronald. I'm not okay.

You roll your weight on your feet, back and forth.

Then you lurch. Run, sprint. The front door flies open at your hands. The cold grass, wet with dew, slicks your bare feet.

His shout fades behind you.

Grass becomes pavement, for three steps. Pavement becomes hard black asphalt. It tears at your feet.

Your throat burns fiercely and your cheeks drown under the weight of heavy teardrops. Your lungs twist and fight the urgent breaths your swift steps require.

A horrid, gruesome wail breaks the silence of early morning. It is wrenching and croaking and filled with unrested sorrow.

You then realize it is your wail.

Your sorrow.

Your streetlight eyes turn and flicker. You do not recognize the houses, nor the street, nor the parked cars.

You stumble.

Your knees, then your elbows, find the asphalt.

You bleed.

Your gaze darkens and blots out, and you find no answer to your wordless cry: only darkness.

0o8o0

Eyes flicker. Head rises. Hands outstretch.

You awaken and search for familiarity. You find none.

The walls are a staunch, refined color. Olive green. The floor is dull white linoleum. The bed is crackly and uncomfortable.

And before you, sitting as regally as a prince, is the tormentor of your childhood. Gray-dressed.

0o8o0

**Thank you to everyone who read the Prologue! (And especially my one reviewer, and best friend IRL, Chrissytingting)**

**Do not worry, my friends. All of the chapters will not be this short. The first chapters will be miniscule, I'm afraid, but they'll get longer. Never fear. =3**

**I implore you to review! You don't even have to have an account to review! Please? =3 They make me feel all fuzzy and warm inside. **

**Anyway. Enough with wasting your time. Go on and read other fabulous fanfics! (Psh, imagine; wasting your time here!) =3**

**-E.v.**


	3. Click

Eyes—they watch you. You remember those eyes all too well.

Ivory, mercury, sloe.

His face has changed little. He is still ordinate, pale, pointed. When he speaks, it is in the aristocratic, cool drawl. His voice oozes sexuality and pride.

He tells you your name. Where you are. Why, too.

Even as he speaks, you still cannot fathom.

Draco Malfoy had aged strangely. His face held all of the youth of his schooldays, skin like a porcelain doll's, teeth bleach-white and intimidating in their perfection.

Other characteristics, however, screamed change. His hair was an odd, molten blend of palest blonde and iron gray, contradicting his cold youth.

He has a pale, webbed scar on the back of his fascinatingly pale hands.

His voice, his hair, his skin, his very presence—it screamed of the winter. Of restless snow, long nights, short days, and much fleeing of the inescapable cold.

0o8o0

_Ignoring Ron's bleats of protest, you hesitate at the painting, unable to help the tiny smile that forms on your lips. Yes. This one has always been your favorite._

0o8o0

The simple, dark-haired woman, on a canvas of green nature.

You realize he exudes the same power that the painting does. The same whiff of force, dripped ever-so slightly in condescension and sparked with all-knowing flint.

He does the same thing, even as you think the very thought.

He smiles. It is merely a twitch of the lip, such a faint change in facial construction that one would not think to immediately notice—but at the same time, oh-so noticeable.

He smiles that Mona Lisa at you frigidly, thumb plunging up and down with sharp _clicks _of the silver pen. _Click. Click. Click._

"Are you having any unsafe thoughts, Granger?" he asks clinically, and you suspect that it's probably –_click_- not the first time he's asked. Your mind reasserts itself, your mouth forming to answer.

Then, you pause.

_Click._

It is then that you remember that you hate Draco Lucius Malfoy.

0o8o0

A psychiatric hospital.

_Psychiatric._

You are flabbergasted. Had running down the street garnered such a new, succinct habitat?

You vaguely wonder over your lumpy applesauce. What's Ron done?

Then you remind yourself that it doesn't matter.

However, in reality, it does. You sold your quaint flat for him. Quit your job at his imploration.

Hermione Jean Granger, supposedly the brightest witch out of Hogwarts.

Right.

You briefly contemplate karma. Surely you could have gotten away with winning the lottery now, at this point. In the least, you could have been assigned a different doctor and therapist than your old school nemesis.

You had once punched that face.

Shaking your head, you contemplate the empty room. Another identical bed and wooden shelf sit opposite of you, devoid of roommate. Roommate.

You decide a roommate wouldn't be so bad, in this antibacterial silence.

You observe the black orb hanging a few inches below the ceiling, holding the room under its perpetual gaze. Eerie.

It suddenly hits you that Malfoy is a Healer.

A Healer, of all things.

Predictably, Harry had become an Auror. Ron had superciliously become an Unspeakable. You worked at a bank—and a dull job that had been. Ginny went for the gold in professional Quidditch.

Malfoy had to deal with _people_. And you could comfortably say that you knew for a fact that Draco Malfoy was _not _a people person.

0o8o0

He speaks those terrible words.

"Hermione Granger," his fox-like smile flashes for only a second, "I don't see a reason to keep you in inpatient, myself."

_Click._

"I will need someone, preferably your next of kin, to alert. Who would you like to pick you up…?"

It is a huge blow to your miniscule ego, that he is treating you this way. This way—the way he'd treat any other patient. It unsteadies you.

You open your mouth slowly, dumbly, licking your chapped lips, watching Malfoy hesitantly.

"Now's the time, Granger," _click, _"or I will have to consult a separate person to niggle you out of your answers. It would be a waste of both of our time. So why don't you tell me—,"

"I don't want to leave!"

_Please don't make me go back, please don't make me go back, pleasedon'tmakemegoback!_

One of Malfoy's brows rose peculiarly. He leaned backwards, a speculative expression on his face, before poising his silver pen over the clipboard and asking, "and why is that?"

"I'm…" you grope to remember something he's said. "I'm not feeling safe," you invent, riding on a splashing wave of panic.

"You are having suicidal or homicidal thoughts?" his silver pen was scrawling neatly over the lined paper, but his eyes were on you. Disconcerting.

"W-what does homicidal mean again?" you blurt, buying for time.

His pen pauses, and so does his mouth—stuck in a ragged slash of a smile, one that screams deadliness.

"Perhaps you are having a memory lapse?" he mused, smiling ever-so slightly. "Because I _know _Hermione Granger knows what homicidal means."

You cringe back. "Yes, yes… I must be…" you mutter worriedly.

He starts a new line; his ink is dark blue. Strange. "Have you had any recent traumatizing events? Perhaps an accident? Bump your head while Muggle skiing?"

There is a glint of that old schoolyard sneer in his smile—his eyes were almost too bright.

"Uh, well…" you buy for time again, wondering.

Hmm.

"_Yes."_

Ask me no questions, Mona Lisa, and I'll tell you no lies.

0o8o0

**And the games have begun! ;D**

**Thank you, dearie Chrissytingting, for being my sole reviewer yet again. Sigh.**

**Thank you to everyone who alerted, favorited, reviewed!**

**Remember, ghosties – you don't have to have an account to review! (:**

**I'm horribly sorry for the wait. My internet's been funky for days and so I couldn't post this when I wanted to, and I had a slight case of writer's block for a few days. Apologies! I'm not really satisfied with this, but it's unfortunately a must-do in this story, so here it is! **

**Hugs, also, to my foreign readers! (; You guys are especially amazing. I wish I could read and speak in more than one language…**

**Anyway! I'll be back in a bit, my lovelies!**

**-E.v.**


	4. Fire

"Malfoy," you begin, in the silence.

You know he's listening, although his composure changes none.

"Why do you use a pen?"

-fumble-

"I mean, instead of a quill?"

_Click._

He looks up at you, steel eyes almost amused in the harsh, white light of the hospital.

He holds out his pen to you—a peace offering?

While you examine, he explains.

It is hard, cold, smooth-

"I find it more convenient."

The writing point is vividly sharp and stained blue-

"More tasteful."

Wasn't there any warmth in his hands?

"You don't have to fill it constantly."

There aren't even any smudged fingerprints-

"_Granger!"_

You jump violently, the pen falling to the tile with a clatter. It rolls, for a moment.

Malfoy is leaning forward, watching you as though you are an extremely rare insect. "Are you experiencing any lightheadedness, dizziness? You've been staring at my pen for about five minutes."

Your fingers scrape lightly on the edge of an off-white tile as you slowly pick up the slim, cool rod. You notice a droplet of blue- _blue? _–ink has dripped onto a tile. Absentmindedly, you slide a fingertip through the miniscule circle, lifting it to inspect the stain on your skin. Blue.

"M-malfoy."

You realize you're trembling violently, and that Malfoy is pressing the silver-and-blue – _blue! _–earpiece on the side of his head.

His voice is so soothing in the next moment that you almost forget about the blue.

"Granger, I need you to take a deep breath. You need to be nice and calm for when you meet your new roommate in a few hours. Just take a deep breath. You're in St. Mungo's hospital, remember? Granger, tell me your middle name."

"J-jean."

A cold – _blue water! _– tear slips down your cheek.

He's nodding slowly, calmly, clipboard set aside, leaning forward on his knees, pale hands clasped.

"And what is my name?"

"Draco," you breathe out, involuntarily.

You had meant to say Malfoy. The realization tears you back to Earth with jarring speed. Even he is frozen momentarily by this seemingly obvious confession.

Eyes—wood and smoke, are tied together.

But by what? …_Fire._

And for one tiny, miniscule moment, desire rampages through your senses. He would taste of ice, he looks so cold. Smell of snow. Feel of porcelain. Sound like wind, whipping furiously through canopies in swift, heavy breaths, the moaning of the branches accompanying it plunge for plunge-

The door flew open. You recoil in wild shock, he becomes a statue.

Two orderlies rush in, and it takes you a moment to realize he summoned them, with his silver earpiece.

One carries a tiny clear cup of simple calming draught, the other a clipboard and quill.

Quill. Not pen.

0o8o0

What? No.

Malfoy. Malfoy, not Draco.

_I must be going crazy, _you rationalize.

The irony of this is too much, and you pat the wall of the psychiatric ward with some fondness. Well, this is the place.

Someone's knocking on the open doorframe. "Hermione?"

You look up almost cautiously, but the people are unfamiliar, save for the frequent orderly standing behind two other people.

One of them is straight-cut and professional-looking, her black bob immaculate and her sternly-held left hand devoid of ring.

The other is small, delicate. The girl is wiry and paper-thin, her skin sun-kissed and red over her cheeks in a faint sunburn. Her hair fell long and dark over one shoulder, and her face was relatively plain, save for two large, dewy hazel eyes that were cooned by her day-old black eyeshadow, smeared slightly.

"This is Vicki," the professional woman stated. "She'll be your roommate."

Vicki gave a half-approximation of a smile, which you attempted to return.

Despite being so small, with her raccoon eyes and straight-shouldered repose, Vicki looked more than formidable.

"Vicki, this is Hermione."

"Hi," you say weakly.

She nods.

You cannot help but wonder, first-off, what problems she has.

0o8o0

**Ooh! Sexual tension and new characters! Whoooooooo… oooo?**

**Okay, okay. I've reached an ultimatum here. If Chrissytingting is still the only person to review this chapter, I won't be posting another until someone else reviews.**

**I mean, c'mon. Show a little love. Not that I'm not SUPER grateful for all the favorites and alerts, but get off your asses and leave me a smiley face and a "I liked it."**

**Hehe. (:**

**And now that I've successfully ran off or offended the few fans I have, I bid you adieu, my lovelies. And please review! ;D**

**Lebewohl, **

**-E.v.**

**PS: A big thanks again to my sole reviewer, Chrissytingting. (: Love ya, Grippy.**


	5. Swings

Vicki does little more than stare at you, in the beginning.

Once, she opens her mouth, on the pretext of speech, but clamps it shut again at the sight of Malfoy striding powerfully into the room, several pieces of parchment in his wiry hands. "Granger," he greets, tilting a stainless-steel coffee mug to swallow the remaining dregs of sugarless, creamless liquid.

Setting his mug down, he sits on the edge of your bed, beside you, and hands you several papers.

"Your schedule's been formed. You'll be heading to recreational outdoor time next – you'll be briefed by an orderly before you go out. After that you have a group meeting in the crafts room. You are in… group B."

"Group meeting?" you demand nervously.

"Yes." His cool eyes find yours. "You'll meet some of the other patients. Relax, Granger. I'll be present, as well as several other doctors and two orderlies."

Disturbingly, this comforts you.

There are several moments of silence – Vicki is summoned out of the room by an orderly.

"Granger."

You peer sideways at his cool, eerily perfect face.

"You're not like I remember."

_I'm not like _I _remember._

"What happened to you? Why are you so different?" his jaw was taut, a muscle jumping beside his tightly-pressed lips.

He continued, "I only know the circumstances of how you arrived here. But not why you were in that position in the first place."

You wet your lips slowly.

"People change, Malfoy."

"Incorrect," he stated, tone wintry. "Time does not change people, Granger. It merely unfolds us. Only time will tell if you have bloomed to be a wildflower or a weed in need of eradication."

In a swish of crisp gray robes, he was gone.

0o8o0

After a few frustrated minutes of scraping and scuffing, you clamber down and cross the wood-chipped yard, over to him. His mercury-cornsilk hair shone faintly in the dully-gleaming noontime sun, peeking amongst a few misty clouds from directly above.

"Malfoy?"

"Hm?" his eyes slid from his vermilion-bound novel to your face.

"Uh… will you… will you…?" your arms floundered a bit uselessly.

A single pale brow rose.

"Push my swing?" you ask meekly, gaze seeking your soft, flat hospital-issue shoes.

It takes him a moment to process this request.

"I…" his eyes were raw with some overwhelming emotion, but then it was gone, vanished in a moment.

"No," he said shortly, turning a page.

"Why not?" you blurt, furiously. You haven't been angry in a while.

"Because," he slid a slim page-marker into the book and closed it, "I am your doctor and therapist, not your babysitter."

But you read the truth in the words.

"You've never pushed someone's swing, have you, Draco?" you said breathlessly.

You realize your mistake only seconds before the anger seeps into his ashen eyes.

"_Malfoys _do not push swings," he spits.

You fold onto the wood bench beside him, passing a large wood-chip between your fingers. His impassioned eyes follow you, and he sits taut beside you, simply glaring.

You peer upwards at his face. He was so perfect, so strangely beautiful, that it is almost feminine. His elegant features are rippled into a mask of distaste – his self-satisfied smirk is gone, to be replaced with a slash of a mouth and repellant eyes.

"Draco," you whispered.

He twitches and averts his eyes. They're focused blindly on the edge of the bench.

You knead your way across the bench, until your folded legs are a scant inch from his hip. "Draco?"

He licked his lips.

"Draco?" you leaned forward slightly, with a frown.

Without warning, your spine jars against the back of the bench and his hand clenched around your chin, jerking your head upward. His touch burns faintly. His face is so, so close…!

His nose brushes yours, and you both shiver, involuntarily. His acerbic eyes are burning into yours. "Granger. This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to find out what's wrong with you, I'm going to fix it, and you're going to leave. If you lie to me, I will know. If you sabotage me, I will know. You're going to leave and I'm going to continue my life. We will not chat happily like Hufflepuffs. We will _not _get along._ I don't need that_."

He spoke the last line with conviction. He threw your head from his grasp, wiped a hand on his beige jacket, and walked away.

0o8o0

You sit alone in the fenced area, staring blankly at the swing-set.

Typical Malfoy, leaving like he owned the place.

You are lost in thought, for a moment, when out of left field, you are thrown forward off of your bench, landing heavily with a muffled cry on the wood shards.

You roll onto your side, attempting to clamber to your feet with hands and knees.

"Nao, nao, _gurl_."

You froze.

The voice was slurred and angry, tinged with a Spanish accent. It was not the voice of Draco Malfoy, supposedly the only person allowed into the fenced outdoor area she was in.

A dark shape loomed over you, cut out of the noontime sun like a gem.

Hands grasped your arms and dragged you up from the earth. Tepid breath swam around your face.

You shrieked airlessly, feet skidding through the sea of wooden pieces – no grip anywhere! None!

A wet, sloppy mouth met with your neck; thick fingers dug past the elastic band of your blue sweats.

You flail.

Hands fly, slapping uselessly on matted hair or sweating skin or heavy cloth.

No, no, no no no nononononono!

Your legs twist and lift and kick, but your waist is held fast. A broken sob escapes from your mouth.

"Shhhhushhhhushhhh…" he ground out uncouthly, biting at your neck, pulling at your pants-

NO!

A wild, harsh scream rips up your throat and burns your mouth.

Your heart – _thud, thud, thud!_

Arms, legs, fingers and nails and skin and panic and no air, no air!

His hand fastens around your neck and _squeezes._

No breath! No air! No – choke, sob, kick, swallow, thrash!

His fingers find your flesh.

Any fight you made before is dull before this fight.

Thrash! Writhe! Kick! Bite! Swing! Step! Push!

_Smack!_

The man topples, sprawling, onto the ground, blood and bruise blooming beneath one eye.

Different arms, gentle ones, find your waist.

You sag.

The man is surrounded, you are drifting away, walking – no – carried.

0o8o0

You wake, find silver eyes.

You calm.

You sleep again.

0o8o0

**And that's a wrap! ;D**

**Hope you liked it (although you are allowed to dislike some parts).**

**My, my, aren't I witty.**

**Anyway! **

**Show some love, ghosties! ….please?**

**Hugs to all who alerted and favorited! Hell, hugs to anyone who's wasting their time reading this.**

**A HUUUUGE thank-you to my reviewers, Chrissytingting, seriana14, starlight-x-A-x, and KLGomez. =3 You guys make my day. You all get a cookie. (;**

**Look at me, slaving away over a hot laptop! (Not really. I'm actually generally an extremely lazy person.)**

… **Shut up, subconscious!**

**I'm just going to stop talking now. **

***Mission impossible theme plays***

**-E.v.**


	6. Friend

Although you know he's supposed to be asking questions, he isn't.

He just sits with quiet grace, still and beautiful, like a statue carved of marble. He doesn't fidget, doesn't shuffle, doesn't speak or touch.

Your eyes sometimes hone in on him, before your mind succumbs back into the disgust.

Your mind swims with the memory, hot and heavy, ever-present. Your skin crawls and you keep _smelling _him—cigarette ash, damp skin, salty breath.

"Can I take a shower?" you ask, and even you are impressed with how dead and emotionless your voice sounds.

Malfoy nods, and stands. You follow him doggedly, down the hall. To the linen closet—he hands you two towels; to the supplies bins—he hands you your soaps and toiletries in a little yellow tub.

You pad in your socked feet to the bathroom, and you feel his eyes follow you.

Your clothes drop in little blue heaps on the tiled floor, and you blindly claw for the dial, which you wrench to the hottest level.

Before the water is even heated, you stumble under the flow, turning your face up, so the water hits it with pounding reality.

Go away, go away, _go away, goaway goawaygoawaygoaway!_

You slam your knotted fingers against the slick wall of the shower, angry at yourself, angry at Malfoy, angry at _him_!

But it is only a moment of emotion, in the recent empty blur.

Your hands fall into patterns of washing, and your mind wanders.

You feel the undesirable guilt, although you _know _it wasn't your fault. Right?

0o8o0

It isn't until you feel the cold hands on your shoulder, your arm—and they burn!—that you realize. Several blank-faced orderlies have pulled back the rubbery shower curtain; their lips are moving, but you hear nothing. Nothing but a faint, blank buzz. A white crackle.

You only register that they're touching you.

_Touching you._

Panic.

You slip and stumble, shoving and sliding towards the only exit—towards the orderlies. You skid into the off-white tile of the main bathroom—run!

And the door is flying open and a gray blur descends towards you and you recognize the pale shine and the gray-silver and the _warmth…_

Your arms fly to coil around this familiarity, and his arms find you, too—

Ah.

You distinctly feel the cotton robes sticking to your skin, feel the bridge of his nose on your freckled shoulder, feel his sweet breath on your collarbone, as he speaks very gently, very kindly. So differently…

"Shhh… no one's going to hurt you… no, no. Nobody's going to touch you… they were all worried; you can't just disappear into the shower for nearly two hours… shhhh… look at you, all pruny. Can't have that… no, no, shh. And look at your skin; why've you been rubbing yourself so hard…?"

You vaguely grasp that you had just spent an hour and a half standing in the shower, scrubbing your skin raw with a ratty washcloth.

He sounds so different than he usually does. Kind, personal, _un-Malfoy-like. _

"I was s-so dirty. I c-couldn't get it off," you hiccupped, "_it wouldn't come off_."

He leans back to peel his damp gray robe from himself and wrap it around you tightly. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's go."

His palm found the back of your knees and he lifts you, as you tremble and cry, silently. Your cheek rests against his firm chest as you lay limp in his arms. The other patients watch with knowing eyes as he carries you down the hall. To your room. To your bed. To the inside of your white sheets. He pulls the chair from the corner to your bedside, and he sits with you, for a while. Until your eyes dry and you stop shaking.

Then he asks.

"What do you need?"

"A friend."

"I'll be your friend."

Despite everything, this is the kindest thing anybody has ever said to you.

0o8o0

**I know, I know, it's short. But exciting, no? **

**Lol just kidding. This isn't exciting at all. **

**But I promise the next chapter will be longer and more revealing! Yaaay.**

**Thank you, my lovely reviewers! chrissytingting and starlight-x-A-x (: You both are rewarded with a puppy (or kitten, whichever you prefer) from the local animal rescue in my head, and a cookie of the kind you choose. Congrats! :D**

**Now, if anyone else wants a puppy, kitten, cookie, etc, I think you know what to do.**

**No?**

**REVIEW! ..please?**

**They make me happy (: (And keep me writing!)**

**For the next chapter, I'll need a total of three reviews. Three is really a quite teensy-weensy number, no?**

**Now, review, go on and read other fanfics, and have a lovely day!**

**-E.v.**


End file.
